Crimson staff writer

Andrew A. White

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I no longer know what to believe in. One day, glorious winter is upon us, sheathing us in a cold white burrito wrap and masking the falseness that lies beneath in the austere perfection of thinglessness. Rarely has my heart been as thrilled as when I saw the world reduced to this.

I took a perverse joy in making my friends’ parents uncomfortable, explaining in more detail than they wanted how my job had me cleaning up fake body fluids and fetching dildos from the storeroom whenever they asked about my “interesting” work.